


down for maintenance

by orphan_account



Category: RWBY
Genre: Hand & Finger Kink, Inappropriate Use of Fantasy Prosthetics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7812898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Kid," Torchwick growled. "Would you mind being obscene somewhere else?"</p><p>"Don't know what you're talking about," Mercury said, dragging the spit-slick lollipop across the soft inner walls of his lips. He smirked. "Bet I'll be done with this before you finish polishing that walking stick, old man."</p>
            </blockquote>





	down for maintenance

There was something irritatingly attractive about Roman Torchwick.

Mercury had met his fair share of men like him. He'd grown up standing behind his father's chair, head bowed and arms folded behind his back, occasionally sent running up and down the house to bring his father's clients a glass of water or a pen for contracts and cheques. The men and women who hired his father had Torchwick's greedy gleam in their eyes, the look of wheels turning even as they smiled and shook your hand.

He should hate the man. Emerald certainly did, her lip curling every time Torchwick made a snide comment about their age.

But the first thing Mercury had noticed about the man was how thickly he smelled of cheap smoke, when he could afford much better. The second was the imperious, lazy stride Torchwick wore, punctuated by the soft, sharp raps his cane made as it made contact with tiled floors. Cinder walked briskly, with her dark, righteous sense of purpose; Torchwick loped behind her with all the grace of a circus tiger.

But the third--and perhaps the strangest--thing Mercury had noticed about Roman Torchwick, and which he could never tear his eyes away from--were his hands. Long and thin, silk pulled tight over the bones and tendons, the flashes of pale skin when a glove slipped, only to be roughly tugged back up; Mercury found himself inexplicably drawn to the older man's fingers. He relished in the feeling, grinned lopsidedly every time he traded barbs with Torchwick, treasuring the rare occassions where Torchwick found it necessary to remove his gloves.

Mercury didn't usually feel regret, or let doubt or guilt colour any of his decisions. His father had made damn sure of that. They were assassins; the only thing he concerned himself with was how best to approach and strike at a target.

Figuring out how to approach Torchwick had been the hard part.

He threw himself heavily into a chair across from where Torchwick was working on cleaning the Melodic Cudgel, dismantled parts spread neatly across the table like fine jewellery in a shop window. Torchwick acknowledged his presence with a snort and a annoyed tilt of his head, but said nothing, only twisting at a screw a little more forcefully than he should have.

Mercury pulled a lollipop from one of his pockets and unwrapped it, making sure to crinkle the paper as much as possible, rolling it on his palm and in between his fingers. When that failed to elicit a response he pushed the head of the lollipop past his lips and sucked loudly, noisily, wet pops ringing off the lines of his mouth every time he pulled it out. Torchwick flicked a kohl-rimmed frown up at him and Mercury grinned around the stick in his mouth, chin tilted upwards in an insolent challenge.

" _Kid_ ," Torchwick growled. "Would you mind being obscene somewhere else?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," Mercury said, dragging the spit-slick lollipop across the soft inner walls of his lips. He smirked. "Bet I'll be done with this before you finish polishing that walking stick, old man."

Torchwick snorted derisively, settling his cleaning tools across the table. He twisted a small dark bottle open with an artless flick of his wrist, fingers curling over the cap and the neck. The sharp smell of Dust solvent pricked at Mercury's nostrils, but Torchwick merely stared down the barrel of his cane and attacked it fiercely, driving a solvent-soaked brush in and out of the metal cylinder, the wire bristles flecked with dark pinpricks of smoke and Dust fragments. His thumb and forefinger shifted against the brush handle, strong muscle twitching under the black silk.

Mercury swallowed a mouthful of sugar and heat. Torchwick glanced at him once or twice, but his eyes didn't linger, moving to wipe clean each delicate piece of machinery. At some point, while Torchwick was in the middle of carefully reassembling each piece, Mercury became aware that he'd been rolling an empty stick over and under his tongue. He pulled it out noiselessly, eyebrow raised. "I win."

"So you do," Torchwick replied, not bothering to look up. "Satisfied?"

"I win," Mercury added, tilting back so his chair rocked dangerously on two legs. "The right to watch you the next time you clean your guns. How's that?"

Torchwick stared at him incredulously, a multitude of emotions flickering across his face, before he started to laugh.

-

The second time he brought a lollipop again; the third time he didn't. By the fourth time they had settled into a pattern, Torchwick polishing and cleaning while Mercury sat in his chair impassively and watched.

The fifth time, Mercury took his time walking to Torchwick's office, dragging his legs, pausing to bother Emerald as she tapped at her Scroll, and only darting away when she threatened to smack him with it. The table was conspicuously empty this time. Usually Torchwick would have already stripped and laid out the inner workings of Melodic Cudgel, but this time the cane stayed propped against the wall, Emerald's twin knife-guns neatly settled side by side on the table instead. Even his gloves were different, his fingers encased in heavy leather instead of expensive silk.

Mercury tilted his head.

"Your little sister wanted me to have a look," Torchwick said, waving a hand in explanation. "I'm sure you don't mind."

He shrugged.

This time was different. It wasn't just the change of weapons, the way Torchwick had to carefully draw out and handle the retractable blades. No, there was a boiling, deliberate slowness to it, the way Torchwick's fingers delicately pulled out and held up each piece to the light as he laid them out: barrel, grip, magazine, and a few other myriad tiny parts Mercury had never bothered to learn the names of.

Torchwick moved to the blade, holding the hard steel between his gloved fingers. His thumb and forefinger worked, rubbing an oiled cloth against the metal--not an old rag like the ones Emerald would usually use, but the same neat, black square he used to polish his own weapon with. Emerald would rub them down quickly, almost begrudgingly, but Torchwick pressed down with smooth, even strokes, homing in on every scratch and imperfection.

He flicked the catch that released the chains, the metallic whirr echoing off the walls, and began to rub against each tiny metal link.

Through it all, the light caught on the shiny black leather of Torchwick's hands, shifting and pulsing, reflecting off the tiny cracks. It didn't have the smooth allure of silk, but the look of it still made something catch in Mercury's throat.

Torchwick moved on to the second gun, carefully slotting and replacing each catch and bolt on the first, but before he could repeat the entire slow process Mercury spoke up.

"You know about Cinder's new mission?"

"The Vale Dust heists?" One of Torchwick's eyebrows quirked upward; there wasn't a hair out of place, each brow probably filled in with the same care Torchwick paid to the black lines rimming his eyes. "What about them?"

"If Em and I pull in more Dust than you," Mercury started, a sudden pressure settling against his ribs.

Torchwick grunted. "I make barely enough to pay the White Fang brutes as it is, I'm afraid."

"I don't want money," He frowned, pressing forward. "I want--If I win. I want you to work on my legs."

That gave him pause. The light, a single, pathetic, flickering bulb, shone on the edge of Torchwick's flame-coloured hair. "What do you take me for?" he said, finally, slamming a magazine home with a loud click. "An Atlesian bio-mechanic?"

"S' just basic maintenance," Mercury muttered, red heat flooding his voice. "I've had these things forever. I'll take care of it if you fuck anything up."

Torchwick snorted, inspecting and retracting the chains on both guns. "What's the matter? Can't find kids your own age to play with?"

"You're not _that_ old."

There was silence, and then he was filled with the sudden, prickling realization that Torchwick was finally looking at him, really looking, appraising him from head to mechanical toe. Emerald had probably called him every synonym for 'hideous' known to man by now, and made all manner of jokes about how his hair colour made him look like he was fifty, but Mercury knew he wasn't unattractive.

"We'll see, then," Torchwick said, and handed him Emerald's guns.

-

Mercury held his left calf in his hand, taking in the impressive weight and heft of it. The lights of the Dust-powered batteries were dimmed in their deactivated state. It was the strange energy they emanated that allowed what remained of his thighs to connect to the lifeless metal.

He didn't usually like taking his legs off, even when he slept. There was always something happening--an ambush by tipped-off officers, an uproar from disgruntled White Fang members--that would require him to run or fight on short notice. He hadn't properly had time to maintain them, either, not with Cinder's plans starting to come to a head. The hard-won Haven Academy uniform folded at the foot of his bed was proof of that.

He and Emerald had won the bet, though through no fault of Torchwick's own. He'd come back disgruntled, waving Mercury away with a fierce 'Not tonight,' and slammed the door to his office.

"Someone's feeling pissy," Emerald had laughed, a spring in her step as she returned to her quarters. Cinder had congratulated them on their efforts, though it was intended as a final jab to Torchwick more than anything.

He considered the worn metal, the scratches and grime worn into the crevices between each joint. Some of the parts had once been so shiny he could see his face in them, tiny mirrors that cast reflected sunlight across the floorboards as he walked; days long gone in a storm of dust and fire.

Mercury was in the middle of reattaching his prosthetic when his Scroll buzzed.

_Tomorrow night. Same time as always. -R_

The batteries around his knees gleamed blue in the darkness.

-

Torchwick was taking his time.

Mercury squirmed, his back protesting against the unyielding surface of the table. He'd moved its usual contents to the floor and felt both silly and sluttish as he laid down on it, boots kicked off haphazardly, one by the door, the other ending up in the corner of the room. He told himself an assassin didn't feel doubt, didn't feel regret, especially not on a mission where conflicting emotions would only become distractions--but there was no helping the heat blazing in his throat and stomach as he pulled his slacks off, leaving only his black boxers underneath.

He didn't hear Torchwick enter the room, but felt him, Melodic Cudgel's tip sliding against his left leg, from the thick facsimiles of calf muscles to the skinny rods that served to connect them to his feet. Their eyes met. Torchwick looked bemused as he pulled up a chair, staring down Mercury from between his thighs. He looked--attractive. Irritatingly, wonderfully, attractive.

" _Well_ then," Torchwick said, heaving a sigh of faux frustration. "Shall we?"

Mercury made a noise in his throat, lost for words.

There would be no dismantling, as Torchwick was as unfamiliar with prosthetics as Mercury was to the workings of his cane, and Mercury thought it would be too frustrating to guide Torchwick through what parts could be taken apart and what couldn't. It wouldn't be a thorough cleanup, but he thought it would be good enough.

The usual bottles of lubricant and solvent were laid out next to Mercury's hip, and Torchwick sank his black cleaning cloth into the solvent noiselessly. He picked up Mercury's right leg and began to work, his fingers warm against the metal cylinders that formed the upper calf, driving the cloth into the seam that joined them together.

"Oh," Mercury gasped, unable to help the single syllable falling from his lips, the grinding sensation of Torchwick working his nails into the tiny crevice travelling right to his groin. He dared to glance down, and nearly groaned again; Torchwick wasn't wearing his gloves, his bare skin pale against dirty gunmetal gray.

Torchwick laughed at the sound, moving upwards so his hand was forced to grip dangerously close to Mercury's actual skin, driving the cloth into the grooves that held the precious Dust batteries. He nearly choked at the feeling. Sensation was strongest there, where his true flesh joined to stiff metal, the tiny mechanisms that allowed him to have some degree of feeling in his prosthetic legs.

His fingers scrabbled, one hand reaching to anchor itself on the edge of the table. "Stop."

"What is it _now?_ " Torchwick hissed, pausing in his actions.

"It's--" It felt like he'd forgotten how to think, his body still reeling from the touch. "Sensitive. Just. Slow down, would you?"

"Well, you asked for all this," Torchwick said, derisively, but he complied, shifting gears to work on cleaning the ball-joint that served as Mercury's ankle. Mercury let out a breath of relief. It was probably a side effect of all the kicks and strikes he fought with, but sensation was weakest in his feet; on particularly cold days it felt like he was walking on air. The hard strokes Torchwick dealt out were reduced to feeling like a mild hum. "Filthy little boy, aren't you?"

"Would you stop calling me that?" He heard Emerald's annoyance echoed in his voice. "I'm old enough. Wouldn't care even if I wasn't."

Torchwick sniffed, releasing Mercury's right leg, moving to the left. "Really," He sneered, actually gripping Mercury's upper thigh now, polishing the battery grooves with a vengeance. "Do you make all the old men you fuck do this? Clean your filthy fucking legs?"

The order to stop died in his throat, razed by pleasure and sheer lust. Torchwick loomed over him, the dim light and dark makeup making him look even more of a villain. Mercury couldn't help but lick his lips, tasting salt instead of sugar. "Yeah? So what if I do?"

"I'll have to tell Emerald her friend's a dirty little slut," Torchwick spat the words, but his mouth was curved in a dangerous grin. He reached for the second bottle of oil, replacing the lid on the solvent, switching to a clean corner of his square of black cloth. "Though I don't think she'd be in any real place to judge..."

The long process of polishing was worse, a slow, sweet torture that began at his heel and moved up to his knee, Torchwick moving in languid, almost loving circles. Silver hair hung in Mercury's eyes and sweat trickled down the planes of his face. He swore, explosively, both under his breath and out loud, until it was over.

And yet there was no hiding his insistent arousal, not with the vantage point Torchwick had, sitting between his legs as he was.

Torchwick drew closer, gripping the seam between flesh and metal, before dropping Mercury's thighs, pulling his gloves out of his coat and drawing them across his fingers.

"Why'd you stop?" There was a whiny edge to his voice, Mercury knew, but he was too frustrated to care.

"I changed my mind." Torchwick made little dusting-off gestures with his hands, flicking at his wrists. "Besides, I only agreed to clean your legs. Nothing more, nothing less. Get the lights before you go, would you?"

The door slammed shut behind him.

Mercury dropped spinelessly onto the table, legs dangling heavily off the edges, letting out an exasperated breath. The heat in his stomach refused to abide, still, his body wound tight with unreleased tension. He ground the flat of his palm against the erection trapped in his pants, moving in lazy circles, a barely-conscious copy of what Torchwick had been doing to his legs a heartbeat earlier. He thought of Torchwick's hands on his cock, whether it was wrapped in leather gloves, silk, or bare skin--the curve of that sarcastic, annoying mouth--his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the cheap smoke and smugness that he wore like an additional coat--

Mercury's breath hitched. One of his legs smacked loudly against the side of the table. There was something irresistibly filthy about doing this on Torchwick's table; he hoped he'd left a dent, an irrefutable reminder of all that had passed here. He choked on air when he came, cursing at the growing dampness inside his boxers. He hoped it was late enough that nobody would see him try to make his way back to his room.

His Scroll buzzed, the vibration barely audible from the pile on the floor that was his trousers. He privately thanked the way mechanical legs couldn't grow weak or stumble, though his thighs still felt a little faint, making him step gingerly like a newborn foal. He fished the thin plastic from the pile of cloth. Three missed calls from Cinder, and a text from Emerald: _where the fuck are u?????_

Mercury glared up at the ceiling.

He'd deal with it all in the morning.  


**Author's Note:**

> thatcoleslaw @ twitter  
> currently open for suggestions/prompts for new fics


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